


All the Wrong Lessons

by reapertownusa



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Spanking, Weechesters
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-01-21
Updated: 2011-01-21
Packaged: 2017-11-27 01:29:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,515
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/656517
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/reapertownusa/pseuds/reapertownusa
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John is determined to squelch Dean's preteen rebellion, but couldn't be more wrong about what his son needs.</p>
            </blockquote>





	All the Wrong Lessons

**Author's Note:**

> Warnings: Parental spanking of a minor
> 
> Author's Note: Written for purple_carpets, at nwspaprtaxis's request for wishlist_fic to a prompt from the hoodie_time feverish!Dean meme.

The morning air was brisk and the woods surrounding their cabin shrouded in shadows as the sun fought through the dense canopy. John’s jacket was draped over a rotting stump. Sweat beaded at the back of his neck.

Dean slipped on the moist leaf layer decomposing on the ground beneath him, stumbling and just managing to catch himself against the trunk of a tree. Against his better judgment, John backed off to give Dean a couple seconds to recover. 

John wasn’t asking his son to walk on water and he didn’t expect perfection. All he was asking for was a reasonable amount of effort. Dean wasn't even paying attention, let alone trying. 

They’d only been sparring for ten minutes and Dean was panting. He’d missed his last three marks with half-hearted strikes. His movements were clumsy and he was dragging his feet as if he was already worn down.

John knew what Dean was capable of. As a twelve year old who wouldn’t hold still unless he was tied to a chair, and probably not even then, John knew that Dean wasn’t exhausted. He was only trying to get out of training early. It was the kind of crap Sam pulled, which was bad enough, but John wouldn’t tolerate it from Dean.

"Hustle, Dean!”

John darted forward, throwing a jab. It shouldn’t have landed anywhere near Dean because his son should have been long gone from the spot by the time John’s fist arrived. Instead, John had to pull the punch at the last second to avoid clocking Dean in the temple.

Dean barely flinched. If John had been aiming anywhere other than at Dean’s head, he would have let the punch land to remind Dean how deadly serious this was.

“You think a werewolf is gonna wait for you to catch your breath?” John asked.

His son gasped like he was still struggling for air, but he was standing as still as the trees that surrounded them. Dean still had his jacket tightly buttoned. If Dean wanted to get out of this, he was going to have to work on his acting.

“If you’re a werewolf, shouldn’t I just shoot you?” Dean replied. “I’m never gonna go Bruce Lee on a werewolf and win.”

His son’s words were edged with weary frustration that John didn’t have the patience for. Questioning rather than acting on orders was again something Sam would come up with, but never Dean. His eldest was a smart ass, but knew better than to ever direct that attitude towards John.

“What if you drop your gun?” John asked as he circled back around his only half-aware son.

“Then I suck,” Dean said. “And without silver, I’m Purina werewolf chow.”

“Or you’ll be bitten, turned and the first thing you’ll do is come after Sam.”

The words had the desired impact, striking a look of horror over Dean’s face. It was then that John saw that there were dark circles beneath his son’s bloodshot eyes. Maybe Dean was legitimately exhausted, but he had to learn the consequences of staying up late when he should be resting for training.

John moved in again. Dean scampered back, but not far enough to avoid his shoulder being clipped by John’s fist. When Dean twisted to raise his arms in defense, his foot caught on a tree root and he fell back with a grunt.

Dean lay splayed on the ground, gripping his shoulder and having the nerve to look confused about how he had ended up there. John stood over him for a moment before turning around and grabbing his jacket.

“That’s it,” John barked. “Get inside.”

Dean sat up, shivering before stumbling to his feet. "Dad, I'm sorry. I—"

"I’m through with excuses, Dean. Ass inside. Now.”

"Yes, sir."

With his shoulders slumped, Dean at least had the decency to look ashamed of his shoddy performance. It wasn’t enough to fix his attitude. The kid still scuffed his feet and trudged towards the cabin when he should be running for it.

John gave him a sharp whack on his bottom. Dean jumped, throwing his hands behind to cover his backside and turning to face John. His eyes remained locked on the leaves. He said something, but his mouth was partially buried in his jacket’s collar when he spoke.

“What did you say to me?” John asked.

Dean swallowed and shot a quick glance up to John before burying his hands in his pockets. “I said don’t,” Dean told the ground. “I’m not a kid. I take care of Sammy, I hunt monsters and I got more training time than–"

“And failing at all of it,” John cut in. “Do you want Sam to go live with Pastor Jim? Do you want to drop hunting? Stop training? Give me a hint, Dean! I got no clue what your goddamn problem is, but we’re finished until you start talking. I’m not gonna watch you get hurt.”

Dean shrunk back, pulling his arms around himself and clamping his jaw closed. John would have thought it was another stubborn response if he wasn’t able to see Dean’s trembling chin. His eyes were wide and he shook his head, obviously not trusting his voice.

John took a deep breath, pinching the bridge of his nose before looking back down at Dean, who was rubbing his face in the sleeve of his jacket. He didn’t want to be the bad guy. There wasn’t anything he wouldn’t give to be spending the day playing catch or taking Dean fishing, but Dean needed to be prepared.

He slapped his hand down against his own thigh to catch Dean’s attention. “Ten laps around the cabin on your way inside.”

Dean opened his mouth, his face scrunched as if he was going to protest, but he quickly snapped his jaw closed.

“Yes, sir,” Dean said beneath his breath. “I’m sorry.”

With a shake of his head, John watched Dean jog ahead towards the cabin. He couldn’t wrap his mind around what had gotten into the boy. Yesterday, Dean had gotten Sam off to school then had fallen back asleep rather than meeting John outside for target practice. John had waited out in the rain at their makeshift firing range for ten minutes before storming inside to drag Dean off the couch.

They had only arrived in town a few days ago and there was only a week left before the local school’s winter break. John had opted not to enroll Dean for that one week in order to get in extra training time, not so that Dean could get extra sleep.

Dean circled back around the cabin and whizzed by him as John headed up the front steps. He could hear Dean’s pace slow to a walk when he went out of sight. John gripped the door handle hard. Whatever this little game of Dean’s was it had to stop.

He went into the kitchen and poured himself a fresh cup of coffee while he waited for Dean to finish what no doubt was going to be less than the ordered ten laps. The black coffee burnt his lips and he set the mug aside.

By the time Dean stumbled in the door, John had laid the guns they’d practiced with yesterday out over the kitchen table. He pointed towards the chair in front of them.

Dean’s lips were parted, but he wordlessly complied. His chest quickly rose and fell, the heavy sound of his breathing shattering the still silence of the cabin. If Dean was this out of shape he obviously hadn’t been following through with training while John was away.

“I’m going out,” John said. “You’re going to stay in that chair and clean these weapons. Everything will be in perfect order when I get back.”

Dean settled down in the chair with his head hung. He didn’t look up or address John, only gave a nod while still fighting to control his rapid breathing.

"I think I deserve an actual answer," John said.

"Yes, sir."

"If you leave this table or do anything other than clean you’re going to be thinking twice before sitting for the next week. Understood?”

"Yes, sir."

John gave Dean a skeptical raise of his brow at the automatic reply. For the last couple days, Dean had been sneaking off, not far, though long enough to be suspicious. John couldn’t figure out what he was up to. Dean insisted he was just going to the bathroom, but it was far too frequent for bathroom breaks. 

So far he hadn’t caught Dean doing anything wrong or gotten Sam to talk. It was always a problem with these two. No matter what the consequences, they always covered for each other. If they weren’t mad at each other then John could just forget about trying to squeeze info out of them.

Dean hadn’t been sitting for thirty seconds before he started squirming. He looked antsy to get up and he hadn’t even looked at the guns yet or given John time to turn his back.

“Your butt doesn’t leave that chair for any reason,” John reminded him.

Dean made a face. John couldn’t read the expression, but knew it sure wasn’t Dean agreeing.

"You got something to say?" John asked.

"Dad..." Dean fidgeted with the zipper of his jacket. He’d finally unzipped it and had to be hotter than his bundled clothing implied because sweat was dripping from his brow. "Can I go to the bathroom?"

John slapped his hand on the table and Dean nearly jumped from his chair. "You went twenty minutes ago. I don't think it's too much for me to be able to ask you to sit in a chair for thirty minutes while I go to the store. Is it?"

Dean’s grimaced deepened, but he grudgingly agreed. "No, sir. Sorry."

He looked genuinely apologetic so John let it drop. Even though Dean was ducking his head, John caught the glistening in his eyes. John sighed and walked over to retrieve his coffee. He bought himself a minute by taking a few gulps then looked back to his son. 

"I need to know I can trust you, Dean. I’m not brining you anywhere near a hunt until I know you’re able to handle yourself regardless of the circumstances.”

“I know,” Dean said. “You told me last week.”

"And I've gotten nothing but grief from you all week. If you're not interested in pulling your weight–"

"I am. I just... I'm sorry."

"You keep saying that, but sorry’s not gonna cut it, buddy. You can't just tell me you're going to do something. You gotta carry through or we’re going to have to reevaluate things."

“I’ll do better.” Dean chewed on his bottom lip before flashing his worried eyes up at John. “Please don’t take Sammy away."

John squeezed Dean’s shoulder. "Be done when I get back."

~~~

An hour later, Dean wasn't done. He wasn’t even halfway finished and the room smelled so heavily of Lysol that it was a wonder Dean hadn’t passed out. Dean was sitting in the chair now, but had obviously been up to something. If John found drugs, Dean was never going to sit again. 

John kicked the front door closed and Dean bolted up in his chair, nearly knocking it back. He grabbed one of the guns from the table and spun around, aiming it at John.

Dean’s hair was mused from where it had been resting against his arm and his eyelids drooped. He was still half asleep.

John's stomped forward and snatch the gun from Dean's hand. It didn't even have a clip loaded. John shoved the weapon in front of Dean’s face. His son stepped back, still rubbing the sleep from his eyes.

“No monster is gonna care about you waving an empty gun. If you pick up a gun, it damn well better be loaded. If I'd been anyone else, you could be dead right now."

Dean fumbled for an answer. "But I...I knew it was you." 

"Enough lies. This ends now."

John grabbed the chair Dean had jumped out of and pulled it away from the table before sitting down in it. He patted his knee and glared at Dean, who had the nerve to look perplexed.

"I warned you.”

"Dad, I don't...”

"You don’t what, Dean? You don’t think you need to listen anymore? You think you can call yourself a hunter when you do nothing but screw around? You get your act together right now or tomorrow I’m driving you both to Pastor Jim’s and you can just stay there until you feel like following orders."

Dean paled and scrambled to unbutton his jeans, but still barely managed to get them down before John grabbed his arm. He bent his son over his lap and let Dean be the one to find the proper position. Dean was wrong about no longer being a kid, but he was getting too big for this. John just didn’t know what else to do with him.

He sent two hard swats to each cheek of the still boxer-clad bottom when Dean took longer than necessary to get settled. John gripped the boxer’s elastic, tugging them down just far enough to reveal the pale skin already taking on a rosy tint.

John snapped another slap over Dean's right cheek before he realized Dean was already squirming. John’s arm wrapped around Dean's waist, pinning him in place. The next smack didn't land before Dean began to struggle hard to push away.

"Dad, I'm gonna…"

Something wet and hot splattered down John’s shin. He jerked in surprise, jostling the rickety chair and half jumping out of it. Dean slipped off his lap before John could catch him and tumbled to the floor.

Instead of getting up, Dean gagged. A spasm trembled over his body. While John had been out, Dean had shed his jacket, flannel and was now only wearing a sweat-drenched t-shirt. He clutched his stomach and heaved again.

A stringy trickle of mucus clung to his lower lip when he looked up just enough to see John’s vomit splattered pants. Horror washed over his face. 

"I’ll clean it up,” Dean said.

Dean went on to mutter a string of apologies as he pushed off the floor. He still looked green when he wiped his mouth clean on his arm. His face wrinkled with discomfort and his eyes rimmed with moisture. Before John’s brain could catch up, Dean was scurrying for the bathroom.

John strode quickly after his son. He found Dean kneeling over the toilet. Dean’s pants were still tangled around his ankles. He looked panicky when he saw John standing in the doorway.

"I'm getting the towels," Dean said between coughs.

John was crouching at Dean’s side before his son could get to his feet. "Hey, take it easy."

He put his arm around Dean’s shoulder. His son was shaking and his cheeks were flushed. John rubbed his hand over his back and held his necklace out of the way as Dean heaved.

"You're okay, son."

His hand ran over Dean’s hair. It was damp with sweat. John moved his hand to rest against Dean’s forehead. The skin was hot to the touch.

This wasn’t something Dean had just come down with. He didn’t know why Dean hadn’t told him, but he knew damn well that he should have noticed.

“I didn’t leave the chair, but uh...I-I kind of threw up in the planter next to the table.”

Dean said it like he was confessing some great sin. Just imagining that his son would think that was expected tore at John. He wrapped his arms around Dean, pulling him to his chest.

Dean leaned back, looking up at John with confusion. “You’re not mad?”

“I’m sure as hell not happy you didn’t tell me you were sick, but no Dean, I’m not mad. I’m just worried. I’ve been worried about you all week.”

"Sorry I got sick." Dean’s eyes were still on the bathroom’s tiles and from the tone of his voice, he hadn’t heard a word John had just said. "I washed my hands so Sammy and you wouldn’t get sick too and I tried not to let it get in the way of the training. I really did, but I just failed at all of it."

John’s own words came back to skewer him in the heart. It didn’t help anything that when Dean looked up, his eyes were pleading for the forgiveness that John should be begging for.

He pulled free the laces of Dean’s shoes, tugging them off before helping his son to his feet. John pulled back up Dean’s boxers, but left his pants at the floor.

Dean’s eyes filled with worried, his hand rubbing his behind. "I’ll try harder."

John turned away from Dean only long enough to moisten a towel and fill a cup of water. He wiped clean Dean’s chin and handed him the cup. Dean’s face was still heavy with confusion when he warily accepted the water and rinsed out his mouth.

He knew there was so much he should say, but so far everything he’d said had been wrong. All he could do was grab a fresh washcloth and scoop Dean up into his arms. Dean was technically too big to be carried with gangly limbs and a decent amount of muscle he was already starting to pack on. John didn’t notice the weight.

“What are you doing Dad? I'm not a little kid,” Dean sniffled. “You don't have to carry me."

Even as Dean said the words, he nestled against John’s chest. He was at first uncertain, but then wrapped his arms so tightly around John it was difficult to breathe. Dean clung fiercely to him until John pulled back the covers and lowered him into bed.

Dean was wrong. They both were. A kid was exactly what Dean was. He was just a little boy, or he should have been, though the world had long ago decided against that.

“Don’t send me away,” the anxious words tumbled from Dean’s mouth. He wiped at his eyes as he half buried his face in the pillow. “I don’t wanna live with Pastor Jim. I wanna stay with you. Please, Dad.”

John set the cool washcloth to his son’s overheated forehead. God only knew why Dean would want to stay and part of John knew that he was being selfish by raising his boys like this.

He’d kept his son out of school to teach him how to use a sniper rifle and hone his hand to hand combat skills. He couldn’t give them a home or peace. He couldn’t tell them that the world was safe or that they could be anything they wanted when they grew up. But they’d only be more vulnerable away from him and without the training they needed to survive in this world.

“You’re not going anywhere, Dean.” John tucked the covers up around Dean’s shoulders when he shivered. “Why didn’t you tell me you were sick?”

“You said it didn’t matter.” Dean continued before John could protest, “You said nothing could get in the way of the hunt. Even if I was sick or hurt so bad I was gonna die I still needed to be able to fight or I wouldn’t be a good hunter and I wouldn’t be able to help you or save Sammy.” Dean hugged the blankets. “I guess I’m not a good hunter.”

They’d had that discussion last week. John hoped he hadn’t used those words, but he wasn’t entirely sure that he hadn’t. It hadn’t so much been a discussion as a lecture, during which Dean had sat quiet and unreadable. John had only wanted Dean to focus despite whatever preteen angst John had thought was distracting him. He hadn’t realized he’d been telling his ill son he wasn’t allowed to be sick.

“I’d never be mad about you being sick or hurt – only if you don’t tell me. If we go into a hunt and you don’t tell me something’s wrong that puts us both in danger. You got that?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Okay, now you need to get some sleep.”

Instead of settling down, Dean was already trying to get back out of bed. John watched him closely, unsure if he needed to dive for a garbage can, but he doubted Dean had anything left in his system. He put a hand on Dean’s shoulder to stop him.

“Where you running off to?”

"I need to go pick up Sammy in a few minutes. School’s only a half day today. I can take care of him, Dad, I really can."

John stroked his hand over Dean’s damp hair. His son was shivering again, his breath sounded almost labored and he looked so pale that John couldn’t believe that he hadn’t noticed before. Dean’s eyes were already getting heavy as John guided him back down onto the bed.

"I know you can, Dean, but first you're going to let me take care of you."


End file.
